And This Is Where It Has Brought You
by shadesofmidnightsun
Summary: Being a bad guy is no guarantee for survival, especially not in Inkheart. And everyone has last thoughts. My take on their last moments of life. Capricorn, Basta, Firefox
1. Capricorn

**AN: This is just my take on how a couple of characters mights have felt right before dying and what their thought might have been. If you disagree that's perfectly fine, just - no flames, please. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own any characters in here. If I did, I wouldn't have had to write this ...**

At first, everything was perfectly right. But then it all started to go very, very wrong.

Even the anticipation had been a treat. Ah, and the event, the spectacle! The murmur of his men was like music to his ears, well-hidden excitement of his own heart its rhythm. Surely the stars were shining especially brightly, and even the wind seemed to have stopped just to be able to witness this night. The night when his – Capricorn's – reign would become absolute.

When he'd been thrown into it, brutally, headfirst, this world, this life had been a shock to him. An absolute, utter shock, one that even he couldn't have hidden. But he'd grown to know it and to love it and then to conquer it. People bowed to him, some in respect, some in fear, it didn't matter. He had some men here on whom he could always count on to volunteer being smashed as a fly if that would save him. And Basta … Ah, Basta! He would be the perfect example of what stupidity could cause, an example for all the black-jackets. And a warning, too. A warning that his orders were not to be defied and missions not to be failed. It would earn him more respect and more fear, making his reign all the more absolute. And tonight would be the cream of the crop! The Shadow was going to serve him once again, undefeatable as ever. After tonight, no one would dare to even challenge his authority!

Sweet were the thoughts twirling around in his head as he sat down, eyeing the Black-jackets, almost intoxicating. He watched Silvertounge's daughter with hunger in his eyes, hunger for power, and for the first time even he forgot reality as her girlish voice started to paint the scenery for a nightmare. He gripped the side of his chair in anticipation, then let go of it when his knuckles turned white. Darkness twirled in the air, gathering, forming a feral mass …

Just a bit more, only a little bit more …

And then he heard words that should never have come out of the girl's mouth. They were as clear and powerful as everything she'd read until then, but something in his gut stiffened as if she had screamed with a horrible, shrieking voice. This was his downfall, he knew it instantly, but refused to acknowledge it, as there was nothing he could if he couldn't stop the girl.

The though ignited despair. No! No, this couldn't be happening!

For the first time in many, many years Capricorn felt powerless, and the feeling seemed to be far more terrifying than what was actually happening. His men were dumbstruck, frozen in place, mesmerized by the girls reading, but even if they weren't – their hands were tied. Basta's knife would be of use; it would hit the target. But Basta couldn't help him. Not now, not this time.

His colourless eyes flickered towards the cage for a moment, the two women coming into view. He didn't see Basta but wouldn't allow his gaze to linger. It didn't matter anyway. The man was just like a dog – painfully loyal and painfully stupid. And dogs weren't important. Never. Especially not in moments when disaster was hanging over him heavily.

Following the girl's voice, the Shadow turned towards its former master, and shivers ran through him. Another long forgotten feeling erupted inside of him, a feeling he'd sworn he'd never feel again – fear. Whether it was visible on his face or not – he couldn't tell. Maybe it was. Because suddenly fear was all he felt, fear because he'd failed and now there was no way out. Fear of dying; who knew what was awaiting him. Would he return to his original miserable excuse of a world? Would white women reach out for him with their long, slender fingers? Or was he to stay here? Was there even anything after death, or was this his permanent defeat? Would he be robbed a chance for revenge?

He clenched his fists at his sides as he faced the Shadow. Any moment now …

But the next moment never came. His dead body collapsed onto the ground.


	2. Basta

What surprised him the most was the fact that it wasn't really a shock. Of course he hadn't expected to die, not here, not now, not after everything, but when his body jerked at the impact of the sword and pain blossomed in his chest, blood colouring the fabric around the blade, he wasn't all that shaken. Why, was beyond him.

Lately he'd come too close to death too many times; perhaps that was the reason. Faster than he thought it possible, he recoiled the bitter moments, images flashing before his eyes. That filthy, stinky cage, mocking laughter. How one single look at the Shadow had made him freeze in fear, yet he hadn't been able to tear his gaze away. Capricorn's indifferent eyes. And then fire, white hot flames that had clawed on his skin. So hot, so much pain … Too much pain … His own screams, filled with agony, still echoed in his ears …

But that had been just the worst of it all. There had been so many little slips, insignificant details, but slips nevertheless. The fire-eater had escaped, not only once, but twice. The damn fire-eater. Whatever the danger, the failure, the humiliation, he had always been involved. Every. Damn. Single. Time.

For less than a moment he saw red from all the hate and anger, but it was gone as soon as it came. What use was rage to him now? It evaporated on its own anyway, and he did nothing to try to call it back as his eyes stopped on the fire-eater. Dirtfinger looked broken, holding the boy's body in his arms. Good. He'd finally hit his heart. That was good. Wasn't it?

Basta could almost see his own body falling. Flames danced around him, close enough that he could feel their warmth, yet not touching his skin. Not that it mattered; the pain in his chest was too strong to let him think about anything else. He was dying, this time for good.

_You should be ashamed_, flitted through his mind. What kind of death was this, being stabbed by a bookbinder who'd only held a sword once in his life before? He'd been through worse, shouldn't have found himself defeated now. By Silvertongue ... If the Shadow had killed him … Well, he wouldn't have been able to fight the Shadow. Or the fire, something he'd been scared of so badly for so long. And yet he was lying amid flames, hurting too much to be afraid. Or ashamed. Strange. There were none of these feelings. No fear of dying … How? Why?

Maybe he didn't even care anymore. His life has been crushed to pieces a year ago, the moment Capricorn's eyes regarded him with mocking indifference and he realised the man hadn't cared. Not at all. It had hurt almost as much as dying, he remembered. So badly, it was easier to ignore it and embrace hatred in its place. Hatred – the only thing left to him, a fuel for his wish for revenge, and revenge the only purpose he'd been able to find. His former purpose had died with Capricorn. A whole lot of things had died that night. But he'd realised his allegiance had survived and refused to falter. He could bow his head to others but not his heart, never his heart, which he'd hidden so carefully ... He'd remained loyal to the dead man still, despite everything.

Would he see Capricorn again? Would they go to the same place? He didn't know. He didn't even want to know. And suddenly he realised he didn't care. He'd lived for Capricorn, would have died for him. But maybe a lifetime of serving him was enough. He'd given his life to the other man – now he wanted his death to be his own.

A shallow, painful gasp for air. Another one. His eyelids slid close.

Maybe dying wasn't that bad after all. He had nothing to live for anyway. Revenge was a poor purpose, an illusion made out of blinded lies. But there was also something about death … Something he should remember …

Fear. That's right. He'd been afraid of dying … Why was that again? Dying … wasn't so bad … The pain … disappearing … It didn't hurt anymore.

Warm … It was warm. Not hot … Not … bad …

So why …?

**AN: Basta's my favourite character, and I think he deserved a more decent death (not one mentioned in no more than three sentences), but that's kinda unimportant right now. About him and Capricorn - I don't support his loyalty to the man in any way, but Basta was hopelessly loyal to Capricorn, and that's why I think his word sort of crumbled when he was to be sacrificed to the Shadow.**


	3. Firefox

Shit. Shit. Shit. He could feel the noose closing around his neck and could hardly stop himself from looking around in a despaired search for escape like an animal driven into a corner. He caught Adderhead's gaze, though, eyes full of triumph and a shadow of a cocky grin playing on his lips.

Fuck. Damn Bluejay and his stupid book. Damn Adderhead - but he should have known the king would never expose himself to such a great risk. Damn Cosimo for destroying the Fire-raisers. At least he'd paid for it with his life. Twice, it seemed. Curse them all. Even Capricorn, whose Shadow had only obeyed him and then – although already useless – simply disappeared. He had no longer been able to use it to plant fear in the hearts of men. To hell with them all. But they weren't going to die. Unless he'd have something to say about it. Oh, how he would enjoy killing them, every single one of them.

What would happen if he drew his sword and go for the king's head? He was close, but would he be fast enough? Maybe not. Maybe he would. But Adderhead had already ordered him to move, and he somehow convinced his body to obey. His hand trembled when he scribbled his name into that damn book. How he'd love to rip it right out of the Piper's hands and cut it to pieces! He'd tear out the pages and made sure his boots trampled them completely. He'd wipe that smug look off of the minstrel's face with fists. Or maybe with the sword …

Fury raged inside him like a summer-storm out at the open sea. He wanted to destroy, to hurt, to kill; anything to get revenge on anyone he could – in one way or another – blame for his current situation. He was going to die here and now, as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow, he knew that. And the reason he wanted to attack somebody so badly was the same as the reason why he didn't. He knew he was practically dead. And he was afraid. It was fear that held his frozen in place, fear that made his legs as heavy as lead, his hands tremble, and his voice gone. It was fear that made him obey like a puppet whose strings had been pulled. Fear made him move down the stairs. And the grin he saw on the Piper's face only made it worse. He was enjoying this, damn it! Sly bastard!

Anger boiled inside of him, white-hot, even worse than before, and so did the fear grow. He felt his heart hammer against his ribcage, and the sound of his heartbeat echoed in his ears. Could others hear it, too?

Damn … The vein on his temple throbbed, and with every throb came a wave of dull pain in his head. His body felt strange. Everything felt strange. As if he were himself but also just an observer at the same time …

The way seemed horribly long. It felt as if an eternity had passed before he stopped in front of the Bluejay and stared at the man. Nausea washed over him. Hatred and fear together; they were so strong it made him feel sick. The air around him was hot … No, there was almost no air. Breathing was hard. For a moment everything spun in front of his eyes, but his gaze remained on the Bluejay's face. This man was at fault. The blame was on him. Most of it.

Words were spoken, words which he heard and whose meaning he understood, but still seemed so far away, unimportant, not connected. A few more words and then – pain.

His eyes snapped open, and there was a gagging reflex in his throat. A sword was sticking out of his torso. It hurt so badly his legs almost gave way, but he gritted his teeth together. How was this possible? He was alive, but with such a wound? No … This couldn't be real. Was it a bad dream?

There were more words, but what did it matter? Or maybe it did. Immortal, said Adderhead. Was he really immortal? Creating space for him? More words? What was this all about …?

"You may kill the Buejey," he heard. "If you'll have time before you die," remained hanging in the air, unspoken. How he managed to pick up the sword, he didn't know. Fear was still numbing him. Now he was really going to die. Nothing would save him. At least he'd been allowed to take the Bluejey with him. The boiling anger had disappeared, but hatred was still running through his veins, hatred and resentment. He was only one man, a small revenge, but better than nothing.

He spit out a threat fuelled by these feelings. A moment later there was another thought. Wasn't that exactly what Adderhead wanted – having the Bluejey dead? But he wanted it, too. What should he do? Damn, if he could at least think. But his heartbeat was too rapid, his body too weak, the pain too strong, and the air too thin. He felt hot and cold at the same time, nausea washing over him. So surreal … What did it matter what he did?

"One."

His arms raised the sword. It was an instinct – kill or be killed.

"Two."

Useless. Useless. He hated the man. He didn't want to die. He couldn't breathe.

"Three."

Instincts kicked in. As if somehow killing Bluejey would grant him life. Still, he wanted to …

The hilt slipped out of his grip.

Shit.


End file.
